The Russian Next Door
by A CriticXWriter All in one
Summary: Gossip columnist and single Minesota girl Rose who lives in the most exciting place in the world, yet she's bored with her lovelife. But things get interesting fast when the old lady next door is nearly murdered. rose starts paying closer attention to her oh and all credit to the author Meg Cabot and R.M lol sorry 'BOUT' THAT :S
1. Chapter 1

To: Rosemarie Hathaway rosemariehathaway

From: Human Resources

Subject: Tardiness

Dear Rosemarie Hathaway,

This is an automated message from the Human Resources Division of the shadowkiss Journal,New York City's leading magazine company. Please be aware that according to your supervisor,managing editor Stan Alto, your workday here at the Journal begins promptly at 7AM, making you 120 minutes tardy today. This is your 7th tardy sofar this year,Rosemarie Hathaway .We in the Human Resources Division are not out to get tardy employees, as was mentioned in last week's unfairly worded employee newsletter. Tardiness is a serious and expensive issue facing employers all over America. Employees often make light of tardiness, but routine lateness can often be a symptom of a more serious issue, such as

-alcoholism

-drug addiction

-gambling addiction

-abusive domestic partner

-sleep disorders

-clinical depression

and any number of other conditions. If you are suffering from any of the above, please do not hesitate to contact your Human Resources Representative, Amy Jenkins. YourHuman Resources Representative will be only too happy to enroll you in the New York Journal's Staff Assistance Program, where you will be paired with a mental health professional who will work to help you achieve your full potential.

Rosemarie Hathaway, we here at the New York Journal are a team. We win as a team, and lose as one, as well.

Rosemarie Hathaway, don't you want to be on a winning team? So please doyour part to see that you arrive at work on time from now on!

Sincerely,

The Human Resources Division

The Shadowkiss Journal

Please note that any future tardies may result in suspension or dismissal.

* * *

To: Rosemarie hathaway

from: lissa dragamir

Subject: You are in trouble

* * *

Rose, where were you? I saw that from Human Resources skulking around your cubicle. I think you're in for another one of those tardy notices. What is this, your 50th? You better have a good excuse this time, because Stan was saying a little while ago that gossip columnists are a dime a dozen, and that he could get Liz Smith over here in a second to replace you if he wanted to. I think he was joking. It was hard to tell because the Coke machine is broken, and he hadn't had his morning Mountain Dew yet.

By the way, did something happen last night between you and Adrian? He's been playing Wagner in his cubicle again. You know how this bugs Stan. Did you two have another fight? Are we doing lunch later or what?

Lis :-)

* * *

To: Rosemarie hathaway

from: Adrian ivanshkov

Subject: Last night

* * *

Where are you, Rose? Are you going to be completely childish about this and not come in to the office until you're sure I've left for the day? Is that it?

Can't we sit down and discuss this like adults?

Adrian ivanshkov

Senior Correspondent shadow kiss Journal

* * *

hey tell me if you like it i just started so... yea


	2. Chapter 2

To: Rose Hathaway

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Adrian Ivanskov

Rose-

Don't get the wrong idea, darling, I WASN'T spying on you, but a girl would have to be BLIND not to have noticed how you brained Adrian Ivanskov with your bag last night at Pastis. You probably didn't even notice me, I was at the bar, and I looked around becauseI thought I heard your name, of all things-weren't you supposed to be covering the Prada show?-and then BOOM! Altoids and Maybelline all over the place. Darling, it was precious. You really have excellent aim, you know. But I highly doubt

Kate Spade meant that adorable little clutch to be used as a projectile. I'm sure she'd have made the clasp stronger if she'd only known women were going to be backhanding the thing around like a volleyball.

Seriously, darling, I just need to know: Is it all over between you and Adrian? Because I never thought you were right for each other. I mean, the man was in the running for a Pulitzer, for God's sake! Although if you ask me, anyone could have written that story about that little Ethiopian boy. I found it perfectly maudlin. That part about his sister selling her body to provide him with rice...please. Too Dickensian.

So you aren't going to be difficult about this, are you? Because I've got an invite to Steven's place in the Hamptons, and I was thinking of inviting Adrian to mix Cosmos for me. But I won't if you're going to go Joan Collins on me.

P.S. You really should have called if you weren't going to come in today, darling. I think you're in trouble. I saw that little troll-like person (Sydney something?) from Human Resources sniffing around your desk earlier.

Mia XXXOOO

* * *

To: Rose Hathaway

From: George Sanchez

Subject: Where the hell were you?

Where the hell are you? You appear to be under the mistaken impression that comp days don't have to be pre-arranged with your employer. This is not exactly convincing me that you are columnist material. More like copy-edit material, Hathaway.

G

* * *

To: Rose Hathaway

From: Adrian

Subject: Last night

This is really beneath you, Rose. I mean, for God's sake, Barbara and I were in a war zone together. Anti-aircraft fire was exploding all around us. We thought we'd be captured by rebel forces at any moment. Can't you understand that? It meant nothing to me, Melissa, I swear it. My God, I should never have told you. I thought you could be mature about this. But to pull a disappearing act like this... Well, I'd never have expected it from a woman like you, that's all I have to say.

Adrian

Senior Correspondent

New York Journal

* * *

To: Rose Hathaway

From: Lissa

Subject: This isn't funny

Girl, where are you? I'm really starting to get worried. Why haven't you called me, at the very least? I hope you didn't get hit by a bus, or something. But I suppose if you did, they'd call us. Assuming you had your press pass with you, that is. All right, I'm not really worried that you're dead. I'm really worried you're going to getfired, and I'm going to have to eat lunch with Dolly again. I was forced to go to Burger Heaven with her since you're MIA, and it nearly killed me. The woman had a salad with no dressing. Do you get where I'm coming from here? NO DRESSING. And then she felt compelled to comment on every single thing I put in my mouth. Do you know how many grams of fat are in that fry? A good substitute for mayonnaise, you know, Nadine, is low-fat yogurt. I'd like to tell her what she can do with her low-fat yogurt. By the way, I think you should know that Spender's going around saying you're doing this because of whatever went down between the two of you the other night. If that doesn't get you in here, and pronto, I don't know what will.

Lis :-)

To: George Sanchez

* * *

From: Rose Hathaway

to: George Sanchez

Subject: Where the hell I was

Since it is apparently so important to you and Amy Jenkins that your employees account fully for every moment they spend away from the office, I will provide you with a

detailed summary of my whereabouts while I was unavoidably detained. Ready? Got your Mountain Dew? I hear the machine down in the art department is fully

operational.

Rose's Morning:

7:15-Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:20-Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:25-Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:26-Wake to sound of neighbor's dog barking. Turn off alarm.

7:27-Stagger to bathroom. Perform morning ablutions.

7:55-Stagger to kitchen. Ingest nourishment in form of Nutrigrain bar and Tuesday night's take-out kung pao.

7:56-Neighbor's dog still barking.

7:57-Blow dry hair.

8:10-Check New York One for weather.

8:11-Neighbor's dog still barking.

8:12-Attempt to find something to wear from assorted clothes crammed into studio apartment's single, refrigerator-sized closet.

8:30-Give up. Pull on black rayon skirt, black rayon shirt, black sling-back flats.

8:35-Shoulder black bag. Look for keys.

8:40-Find keys in bag. Leave apartment.

8:41-Notice that Mrs. Friedlander's copy of the New York Chronicle (yes, George, my next door neighbor subscribes to our biggest rival: don't you agree with me now

that we really ought to do something to draw more senior readers?) is still lying on the floor in front of her apartment door. She is normally up at six to walk her

dog, and takes her paper in then.

8:42-Notice that Mrs. Friedlander's dog is still barking. Knock on door to make sure everything is all right (some of us New Yorkers actually care about our neighbors,

George. You wouldn't know that, of course, since stories about people who actually care for others in their community don't make for very good copy. Stories in the Journal, I've noticed, tend to gravitate towards neighbors who shoot at, not borrow cups of sugar from, one another).

8:45-After repeated knocks, Mrs. Friedlander still does not come to door. Paco, her Great Dane, however, barks with renewed vigor.

8:46- Try handle to Mrs. Friedlander's apartment door. It is, oddly enough, unlocked. Let myself inside.

8:47-Am greeted by Great Dane and two Siamese cats. No sign of Mrs. Friedlander.

8:48-Find Mrs. Friedlander facedown on living room carpet.

Okay, George? Get it, George? The woman was FACEDOWN on her living room carpet!

What was I supposed to do, George? Huh? Call Amy Jenkins down in Human Resources?

No, George. That life-saving class you made us all take paid off, see? I was able to tell that not only did Mrs. Friedlander have a pulse, she was also breathing. So I called 911 and waited with her until the ambulance came. With the ambulance, George, came some cops.

And guess what the cops said, George? They said it looked to them as if Mrs. Friedlander had been struck. From behind, George. Some creep whacked that old lady on the back of the head!

Can you believe it? Who would do that to an eighty-year-old woman? I don't know what this city is coming to, George, when little old ladies aren't even safe in their apartments. But I'm telling you, there's a story here-and I think I should be the one the write it.

Whadduya say, George?

Rose

* * *

To: Rose Hathaway

From: George Sanchez

Subject: There's a story here

The only story here is the one I haven't heard. And that would be the story of why, just because your neighbor got whacked on the head, you couldn't come into the office, or even call anyone to let them know where they were.

Now that is a story I'd really enjoy hearing. G

* * *

To: George Sanchez

From: Rose Hathaway

Subject: Where I was

George, you are so cold-hearted. I found my neighbor facedown in her living room, the victim of a brutal attack, and you think all I should have been concerned about was calling my employer to explain why I was going to be late?

Well, I'm sorry, George, but the thought never even crossed my mind. I mean, Mrs. Friedlander is my friend! I wanted to go with her in the ambulance, but there was the little problem of Paco. Or should I say the big problem of Paco. Paco is Mrs. Friedlander's Great Dane, George. He weighs a hundred and twenty-nine pounds, George, which is more than me. And he needed to go out. Badly. So after I took him out, I fed him and watered him and did the same to Tweedle-Dum and Mr. Peepers, her Siamese cats (Tweedle-Dee sadly expired last year).

While I was doing this, the cops were checking her door for signs of forced entry. But there were none, George. Do you know what this means? It means she probably knew her attacker, George. She probably let him in of her own volition! Even more bizarrely, there were two hundred and seventy-six dollars in cash in her purse that had been left untouched. Ditto her jewelry, George. This was no robbery. George, why don't you believe there's a story here? Somethingis wrong. Very wrong. When I finally did get to the hospital, I was informed thatMrs. Friedlander was in surgery. Doctors were frantically trying to relieve the pressure on her brain from a giant blood clot that had formed beneath her skull! What was I supposed to do, George? Leave? The cops couldn't get in touch with anybody from her family. I'm all she has, George. Twelve hours. Twelve hours it took them. I had to go to her apartment to walk Paco twice before the surgery was even finished. And when it was, the doctors came out and told me it had only been partially successful. Mrs. Friedlander is in a coma, George! She may never come out of it. And until she does, guess who's stuck taking care of Paco, Tweedle-Dum, and ? Go on. Guess, George.

I'm not trying to get sympathy here. I know. I should have called. But work was not necessarily foremost in my mind at the time, George.

But listen, now that I'm finally here what would you think about letting me write up a little something about what happened? You know, we could hit it from the Be Carefu Who You Let in to Your Apartment angle. The cops are still looking for Mrs. Friedlander's closest relative-her nephew, I think-but when they find him, I couldinterview him. You know the woman really was a wonder. At eighty, she still goes to the gym three times a week, and last month, she flew to Helsinki for a performance of TheRings. Seriously. Her husband was Henry Friedlander, of the Friedlander twistie fortune. You know, those twist-ties that go on garbage bags? She's worth six or seven million at least. Come on, George. Let me give it a try. You can't keep me doing gossip for Page Ten forever.

Rose

* * *

To:Rose Hathaway

From: George Sanchez

Subject: You can't keep me doing gossip for Page Ten forever

Yes, I can.

And do you know why? Because I am the managing editor of this newspaper, and I can do whatever I want. Besides, Hathaway, we need you on Page Ten. Would you like to know why we need you on Page Ten? Because the fact is, Fuller, you care. You care about Winona Ryder's dating status. You care that Harrison Ford's had a chemical peel. You care about Courtney Love's breasts, and whether or not they are silicone, and did they or did they not explode last month when she was in Tibet.

Admit it, Fuller. You care. The other thing ain't a story, Fuller. Old ladies get bonked on the head for their Social Security checks every day. It's called a telephone. Next time, call.

Capice? Capice. Now get me the copy on the Prada opening.

G

* * *

To: George Sanchez

From: Rose Hathaway

Subject: I do not care about Courtney Love's breasts...

...and you'll be sorry for not letting me run with the Friedlander story, George. I'm telling you, there's something there. I can smell it.

And by the way, Harrison would NEVER get a chemical peel.

Rose

PS And who doesn't care about Winona Ryder's love life? Look how cute she is. Don't you want her to be happy, George?

PPS And they didn't explode, they leaked. Because of the altitude, George. God, don't you even READ my column?

* * *

To: Human Resources

From: Rose Hathaway

Subject: My Tardiness

Dear Human Resources,

What can I say? You caught me. I guess my

-alcoholism

-drug addiction

-gambling addiction

-abusive domestic partner

-sleep disorders

-clinical depression

and any number of other conditions have finally caused me to hit bottom. Please enroll me in the Staff Assistance Program right away! If you could hook me up with a shrink who looks like Brendan Frasier, and preferably conducts his therapy session with his shirt off, I'd appreciate it.

Because the primary condition from which I am suffering is that I'm a twenty-seven-year-old woman living in New York City, and I cannot find a decent guy. Just one guy, who won't cheat on me, doesn't live with his mother, and isn't turning to the Arts section of the Chronicle first thing Sunday morning, if you know what I mean. Is that asking so much? See if your Staff Assistance Program can handle that.

Rose Hathaway

Page Ten Columnist

NY Journal

* * *

To: Adrian

From: Rose Hathaway

Subject: Can't we discuss this like adults?

There's nothing to discuss. Really, Adrian, I'm sorry for throwing my bag at you. It was a childish outburst that I deeply regret. And I don't want you to think that the reason we're breaking up has anything to do with Barbara. Really, Adrian, we were over a long time before you ever told me about Barbara. Let's face it, Adrian, we're just too different: You like Stephen Hawking. I like Stephen King. You know it would never have worked.

Mel

* * *

To: Mia Vargas

From: Rose Hathaway

Subject: Adrain

I did not throw my bag. It slipped out of my hand when I was reaching for my drink, and accidentally flew through the air and hit Adrian in the eye.

And if you want him, Mia, you can have him.

Rose

* * *

To: Lissa

From: Rose Hathaway

Subject: Where I was

Okay, okay, I should have called. The whole thing was just a nightmare. But that's not what's important. This, you're never going to believe: Aaron cheated on me in Chechnya. That's right. And you'll never guess who with. Seriously. Try to guess. You never will.

All right, I'll tell you: Barbara Bellerieve. Uh-huh. You read that correctly: Barbara Bellerieve, respected senior ABC news correspondent, most recently host of the television news magazine TwentyFourSeven, and voted one of People Magazine's 50 Most Beautiful people last month.

Can you believe she slept with Adrain? I mean, she could have George Clooney, for God's sake. What would she want with Adrian?

Not that I didn't suspect. I always thought those stories he kept emailing in during that month he was on assignment there were way too smug. You know how I found out? Do you? He TOLD me. He felt he was ready to reach the next level of intimacy with me (three guesses as to what level THAT is) and that in order to do so, he felt he had to make a clean breast of it. He says ever since it happened, he's been wracked with guilt and that none of it meant anything. God, what a putz. I can't believe I wasted three months of my life on him.

Are there no decent men out there? I mean, besides Tony. I swear, Lissa, your boyfriend is the last good man on earth. The last one! You hang on to him, and don't let go, because I'm telling you, it's a jungle out there.

Rose

PS Can't go to lunch today, I have to go home and walk my neighbor's dog.

PPS Don't ask: It's a long story.

* * *

To: Rose Hathaway

From: Lissa Dragamir

Subject: That Jerk

Look, the guy did you a favor. I mean, be honest, Rose. Did you really picture a future for the two of you? I mean, he smokes a PIPE, for crying out loud. And what's with all that classical music? Who does he think he is, anyway? Harold Bloom? No. He's a reporter, just like the rest of us. He's not out there writing fine literature. So what's with that bust of William Shakespeare he keeps on top of his monitor? The man is a big phony, and you know it, Rose. That's why, in spite of the fact you two went out for three months, you never slept with him. Remember?

Rose ;-)

* * *

To: Lissa Dragamir

From: Rose Hathaway

Subject: That Jerk

I never slept with him because of that goatee. How was I supposed to sleep with someone who looks like Robin Hood? He didn't want me enough even to shave.

What's wrong with me, Nad? Am I really not worth shaving for?

Mel

* * *

To: Rose Hathaway

From:Lissa Dragamir

Subject: That Jerk

Give up the pity quest, Rose. You know you're gorgeous. The man is obviously suffering from a psychiatric disorder. We should sic Sydney Sage on him. Where are we going for lunch today? And do NOT say Burger Heaven. If I don't get down to a size 12 in two months, the wedding's off. Every girl in my family has worn my mother's dress to her wedding. I am not going to be the first Dragamir to schlep out to Klinefeld's.

Lissa :-)

* * *

To: Lissa Dragamir

From: Rose Hathaway

Subject: Lunch

Lis, you know I can't go to lunch. I have to go home and walk Mrs. Friedlander's dog. Did you hear the latest? Chris Noth and Winona. I'm not kidding. They were seen kissing in front of Crunch Fitness Center on Lafayette Street. How could she be so blind? Can't she see he isn't any good for her? I mean, look what he did to poor Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City.

Rose

* * *

To: Rose Hathaway

From: Lissa Dragamir

Subject: Reality check

Rose,

I hate to break this to you, but Sex in the City is a fictional program. You might have heard already that there are these things called TV shows? Yeah, they are fictional. What happens on them in no way reflects on real life. For instance, in real life, Sarah Jessica Parker is married to Matthew Broderick, and so whatever Chris Noth's character did to her character on her show, it didn't actually happen. In other words, I think you should be less concerned for Winona, and more worried about yourself, because this dog thing? Yeah, it's beginning to suck. That's just my opinion, of course.

Lissa

* * *

To: Rose Hathaway

cc: Lissa Dragamir

From: Tim Grabokwski

Subject: CONFIDENTIAL All right, girls, hold on to your hats. I got the information you requested, the salary increases for next year. It wasn't easy. If you tell anybody where you got this information, I will accuse you both of having gambling addictions, and you'll be yanked into the Staff Assistance Program before either of you can whistle Dixie.

Here goes:

Name: Position: Salary:

Peter Hargrave

Editor in Chief $120,000

George Sanchez

Managing Editor $ 85,000

Mia Vargas

Style Editor $ 75,000

Adrain Ivanskov

Chief Correspondent $ 75,000

Lissa Dragamir

Food Critic $ 45,000

Rosemarie Hathaway

Page Ten Columnist $ 45,000

Sydney Sage

Human Resources Admin. $ 45,000

Read it and weep, girls.

Timothy Grabowski

Computer Programmer

NY Journal


End file.
